I'll Be Your Kryptonite
by djbechloemitchell
Summary: This is what she was created to do. To train. To fight. To win. But when she takes a step back, she sees how fucked up everything is. This isn't just some Superman story, where he gets the girl and always wins and everything is okay, she thinks. This is real life. And it's hurting everyone.


"You don't think Beca's been acting a little…" Aubrey hesitates; setting down one of Chloe's moving boxes, "I dunno, closed off?"

Chloe sighs, wiping the thin layer of sweat that's been collecting on her forehead for the past two hours. Aubrey, the ever so helpful one (if she does say so herself, which she does), volunteered to help Chloe move into her and Beca's new house on the west side of California while Beca disappeared, the only form of communication between the couple being a cryptic text from her: '_Something came up. I have to go. See you soon. Remember, I love you. So, so much._'

"She's…" Chloe pauses, searching for the right words, "just been under a lot of stress lately, okay? You know, her dad died, her brother was sent off to Afghanistan, everything's just been really tough for her."

Aubrey nods silently. She had been slightly sad when Chloe had called her, a crying Beca in the background. Her father had been hit head-on by a drunk driver, and his neck had snapped in half. Beca got over it quickly, but still carried around a sad aura whenever she went to class or anywhere that reminded her of Dr. Michael Mitchell. To make things worse, her older brother, Dylan, was sent off to Afghanistan as part of the reinforcements group. Beca slept in his Marines T-Shirt the first week of his departure, according to Chloe. Though she never fully got used to Beca being around so much, she still felt a pang of sadness when the misfortunate events hit the small brunette like a ton of bricks.

"Hey, Brey, look at this!" Aubrey is snapped out of her thoughts as Chloe gently pushes her shoulder, motioning towards the small television set up on the kitchen counter. They take seats on large boxes and turn their attention to the emergency news broadcast.

"Good evening, ladies and gentleman. My name is Veronica Cleveland, and this is an emergency broadcast coming to you live from Channel Thirteen News Studios," the anchor says, her face solemn and firm. "This afternoon, at exactly three o' seven, sixty-three Mafia members stormed the White House and ceased the President, locking him in his office with three of the men. Shortly after, a video was released from the office of the White House, intercepting the firewall in the Department of Homeland security."

The screen switches to a video of the President of the Unites States in ropes, blue tape covering his mouth while a chubby man with a cigar in his trout mouth holds a gun to the President's shaking head. "'Ello, suckas," the man grumbles, rolling the cigar around in his mouth. With every breath he takes, smoke floats from the burning cigar and dissolves into the air. With another breath, he starts to speak again, his thick New York accent filling the speakers, "It seems we 'ave your beloved President. Some relic 'e is. In case you 'aven't noticed, my boys an I don't really like to play by your stupid rules. So, we're makin' our own. Listen 'ere, jackasses. I'm gon pull this 'ere trigger, and after I do that, this 'ere little _democracy _you 'ave is gon be over, comprende? Me and the Mafia'll be in charge, just like we should be-"

_CRASH!_

A figure flies through the window at an incredibly fast rate, slamming its foot into the chubby man's back- foot? What? Is this thing a person? Aubrey squints at the screen and widens her eyes as she realizes that yes, that is indeed a person. A small, fast, strong person, with many feminine qualities. A girl? Not that she was complaining, because it was time that women took charge of the world, in Aubrey's opinion, but this is different. Different than any escape or rescue plan that could have been executed.

The girl grabs the man by the collar and pushes him against the desk in front of them. She then looks at the President, and through her black mask, beams of red shoot out from her eyes, cutting the ropes away until the President shoots up and rips the tape from his mouth.

He doesn't even seem scared. Or worried. Or surprised.

He looks knowing. Like he knew that she would crash through the window and save him.

He nods quickly at her before running out of view at the camera, and the image of the girl distorts for a few seconds before she's clear again. The sound of someone hitting the floor reaches Aubrey's ears, and then the President yells down the hall, "Call the SWAT team! Call somebody! Anybody! She's here!"

The camera zooms in on the mysterious hero's face, but she quickly ducks out of view, dashes behind the camera, and takes out the cameraman. Then, faces the frame, smirks, and disconnects the video.

The last image is a pair of navy blue eyes.

The screen flips back to the news anchor, whose face is a mixture of shock and skepticism.

"That was… interesting. Who is this mysterious hero? Will she be seen again? And what threats will face the President in the future? That's all for this emergency broadcast, ladies and gentlemen. You are now welcome to return to your previous activities. Have a safe evening. Goodnight." And the anchor signs off, and a re-run of _American Dad!_ continues to where it left off.

"Well damn," Chloe breathes, leaning back against the countertop. "That was crazy. Third time this week that someone comes to the rescue. The bombings in Fort Lauderdale, the sinking Navy ship in Hawaii, and now this. It's unbelievable."

"Yeah," Aubrey agrees. Her hand reaches for her phone in her back pocket. "I need to call someone really quick, Chloe. Be back in a second." Chloe nods, tipping her head back for another swig of water.

Aubrey stumbles into the hall, clutching her phone until her knuckles are white. She hastily goes through her contacts and scrolls down until she sees the name she's looking for. She presses call.

At the seventh ring, Aubrey gets an answer. _"H… hello?"_ The voice is raspy and it sounds like the person just ran a marathon.

"Beca Mitchell, you have some serious fucking explaining to do."

* * *

Beca gingerly closes the door to her new house, careful not to wake Chloe. She turns around and walks into the living room, only to be met with the stern face of Chloe Beale instead of the snack she was going to eat.

"Where the _hell_ have you been, Beca Mitchell?" she spits, walking up to her and pointing a finger at her chest. "Do you have any idea how long-"

Beca chooses this moment as a good time to remove the hood from her head and reveal the numerous cuts and bruises that line her face. Chloe gasps and takes a step back, gently pressing the pad of her index finger to Beca's bloody lip.

"What… what happened?" she manages to stutter, bringing Beca into a hug. She gratefully returns it, but hisses when too much pressure is added to her (almost) broken ribs. Chloe runs a hand through her hair.

"This is the seventh time this month that you've come home bloody and bruised, Becs," Chloe informs softly, breaking away to look into Beca's navy blue eyes. "Is someone hurting you? Are you in trouble? Should I call the police?"

Beca shakes her head, turning away. "No. Please, don't." Her voice is barely a whimper and she mentally slaps herself for not being strong. "I'll be fine, okay? I promise. I just need to clean myself up, that's all. And then I'll feel better."

Chloe shakes her head slowly. "That's fine… but… will you tell me what happened to you? Please? I can't stand to see you like this."

"I…" Beca freezes, but she knows exactly what to say. _Say it!_ her mind screams. _Just do it already!_ "I… uh, I… Chloe, I can't. I can't, okay? But I promise, I'm not cheating on you. I'm not getting drunk. I'm not getting into bar fights, okay? I promise you." She turns around and grabs both of Chloe's hands as she looks into her eyes.

Chloe nods slowly, not meeting her eyes. "Alright. Okay."

Beca turns around and walks up the stairs, the last image floating though her mind is the expression on Chloe's face. Why couldn't she just say it? Why does she keep putting it off? She told Aubrey, or rather, Aubrey found out already.

_It's because you don't want to hurt her,_ her mind says. _You can't let them get to her. You have to protect her at all costs. Even if that means the ultimate sacrifice._

Chloe probably thinks she's cheating on her. She probably thinks that she's getting drunk. She probably thinks everything that Beca told her wasn't true is true. But it's not.

Beca trudges into the bathroom and rinses her face, sighing in relief as she watches the cuts on her face disappear and close themselves up and the bruises reduce and turn back to her natural skin color. She pulls of her clothes and her suit. She stares.

She stares at the dark purple 'T' on the front of her suit, the small bullet-shaped holes in the body, and then pulls the black mask out of the pocket of the suit and stares at that, too.

Everything is so fucked up right now.

But this is what she was trained to do. She was created to fight. To battle. To win. To save lives and cities and the world.

She's only twenty-three years old, and when the stress and reality finally come crashing down on her sore shoulders, she crawls into bed, shaking.


End file.
